a. melo
your queer
trophy husband—
polished like an argument
no one dares to finish
yes, show him off,
his angles rehearsed,
his silence tailored
to fit the room
he wears himself well
like a verdict mistaken for choice
like desire that learned
to speak in etiquette
while he’s feeling suited
for this job—
this performance of being wanted
without ever wanting back
watch how he stands:
a monument to approval,
breathing carefully
so as not to disturb the frame
irony slips in
through the cuff of his sleeve:
he was never the prize,
only the evidence
and you—
curator of this living exhibit—
keep pointing
as if display
could save either of you
from the slow erosion
of being seen too clearly